Callbacks
by s. m. rahl
Summary: Worried for the safety of the Order in their espionage activities, Dumbledore requests the help of an actor who previously rejected her parents' world of witchcraft and wizardry. Shakespeare, spying, and Severus Snape. Will be eventually be rated M.
1. Prologue: Grundarfjöður

PROLOGUE: GRUNDARFJÖÐUR

"Well, Albus. It seems you've made the most pointless decision of your career," Professor Minerva McGonagall huffed slightly. "Granted, it will require very little effort to accommodate her, but given her history I'm not certain she'll even consider coming."

Dumbledore smiled. "And if she does? The skills she can give to the students will be particularly useful in the coming years, Minerva, especially for aspiring Aurors." He glanced at her over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "I'm well aware that nerve is no substitute for recent experience. Lord Voldemort is drawing his sympathizers closer. Some of our number may be required to keep close contact with them. It has been years since they last assumed these roles." Briefly, Dumbledore's eyes lost their customary twinkle. "I would deeply regret losing any of the Order to a thoughtless mistake."

He met the Transfiguration professor's worried gaze for a few silent moments. "It would mean a great deal to the Order if we had her help."

"Albus . . ." She sighed. "I'll write her Muggle university immediately, and send an owl to her in the morning." She rose to leave, but turned back to Dumbledore. "I understand your reasoning, Albus. I am only reluctant to introduce a possible liability into the Order."

"Loyalty tends to run in families, Minerva. If not, we shall have to employ other methods." He twinkled up at her. "Goodnight. Sleep well, and dream of the next great undiscovered Gryffindor Quidditch champion."

Almost a thousand miles from the professors' conversation, the discussed was feeling, well, disgust at her own contentment.

It was the weather.

That had to be it. There was absolutely no other reason for being so completely happy and relaxed. Typically, Hazel had to consciously remind herself to let her shoulder muscles unclench and relax her jaw. But the weather was perfect, and therefore, her mood had naturally followed suit.

The August sky above Grundarfjöður was immaculate; the air was clear, untouched by smog or smoke or light pollution. Flat-topped, treeless mountains ringed the small Icelandic town on all sides, giving visitors the impression they lived inside a large, jagged cereal bowl. In the inmost point of the mountain bowl laid small houses and buildings.

Hazel Farren couldn't see the buildings at the moment. She was stretched out in a green expanse just outside of the town, Dell DJ in one hand and the strange Icelandic mountains ringing her peripheral vision. She loved Iceland. She loved being able to breathe without snot from her allergies clogging up her nose. Hazel Farren was very far from the place of her birth, and the distance was exactly what she'd intended.

She rose, brushed a few stray pieces of grass from her running shorts, and easily jogged the few minutes through the town streets to the small blue duplex that was her home during the summer months. The silver "17" on the unlocked door flashed in the sun as it swung open. Inside, the apartment walls were covered with shelves stacked high with plays and literature. For the past three years the blue duplex had served as a retreat where Hazel could prepare for the upcoming year at the Oxford School of Drama. Hazel wasn't returning to London in the fall. She'd finished all her classes and, after a year-long internship with a theater company or school, she'd complete her B.F.A. in acting and graduate with honors.

Shower time. Her morning run had worked up a reasonable amount of sweat and nastiness. Definitely cool water. The morning had been surprisingly warm for a town so far from the equator. It was still strange having the entire bathroom to herself, but Hazel took full advantage of it, stripping down and throwing her clothes into various corners of the lime-tiled floor before stepping into the small shower.

The School of Drama's academic advisor's office smelled, as always, of cheese. Behind his desk, the slight, balding advisor glanced over Hazel's transcript and her intern request form. "First choice, Royal Shakespeare Company?"

Hazel smiled. "Yes, sir."

Oh yes, yes, please yes, God yes, absolutely. She'd aspired to it for years, wanted it even at the age of fifteen. Stocky, unattractive, and with a slight lisp brought about by bad teeth in the process of correction by braces, she'd changed her diet, her exercise, and thrown herself at her homework and her theater work with an inflamed passion. She shut herself in her room for hours, reading, desperately wanting to be the Rosalind, the Beatrice, the Portia of a man who lived and died hundreds of years earlier and an ocean away from a small girl working at a small local theater in a small town in North Carolina.

Her parents . . . a sudden tapping noise startled Hazel out of her disconnected memories. She nearly gashed herself, shrieked, and dropped her razor. She turned the water off. The tapping stopped. Must have been the pipes. She turned the water on again.

Hazel's Grundarfjöður flat was as much home as her dorm at Oxford, but was sadly lacking the added amusement of her dorm mate, Audrey. Audrey was a charming, easily excited, hardworking girl of 22. Hazel had tried to convince Audrey to join her in her Icelandic flat for their final summer before the two girls split up, Hazel for her internship and Audrey for studying endangered animals off North Carolina's Outer Banks with Campbell University. Spending the summer months in Iceland? No, no, Audrey had insisted. Enjoy your time alone while you still have it. Audrey had opted to take a long vacation on the beaches of the Outer Banks with her Devonshire family, before she formally got herself to Campbell to begin work in late August.

Freshly bathed and smelling of fruit, Hazel wrapped the deep green towel tightly around herself before leaving the bathroom to open the heavy curtains on the windows of her bedroom. The sun never went down during the summer months, and it was by thick curtains alone that she managed to get a proper night's sleep. A light dose of melatonin never hurt, either, though waking from her first few nights of it were always more of a "staggering" than a "rising."

There was that tapping again. Goddamn pipes. The water wasn't even running. Why were the pipes making noise if the water wasn't on? Hazel went back into the bathroom. Funny, the noise had been louder in her bedroom. She left the bathroom and went into her bedroom again. It WAS louder.

"What the fuck . . ." she said aloud.

Suddenly, the window beside her bed shattered. Hazel swore aloud in shock.

A magnificent spotted owl flew in amongst the shards. He let out a brief, irritable hoot, unceremoniously dropped the letter it was carrying on her bed, and landed on one of the posts.

Three thousand miles from home, and her parents' world had still managed to find her.


	2. Chapter One: A Proposition

CHAPTER ONE: A PROPOSITION

There was an owl sitting quite comfortably on her oak four-poster.

Granted, there were many stranger things Hazel had been faced with in life, but she hadn't expected this particular situation again. Owl post. She hadn't received a letter this way in years.

She'd been impatient and curious even as a child, and an unwarranted letter was excuse for feminine instinct to take hold with an enthusiastic whoop. With a quick side glance to the owl, currently picking at his graying feathers quite happily, Hazel rescued the letter drowning in her copious amounts of unmade flannel bedspreads – even in the summer, the warmth and comfort felt delicious against her skin – and slid one slender finger under the flap of the envelope addressed in jade ink, so deep a green it was almost black.

The contents consisted of a thick sheet of yellowing parchment, which she immediately unfolded.

_August 25_

_Miss Farren,_

_We are pleased to offer you the post of Professor of Dramatic Art for the following school year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

_The post would require teaching student classes – fifth to seventh years – during the week and one weekly afternoon adult class, to be taught on Friday evenings. In recompense for your services, we will provide you an acceptable salary, room and board at Hogwarts, and facilities tailored to your personal preferences._

_Headmaster Albus Dumbledore will be in contact with you shortly concerning the details of the position._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

The owl on her four-poster gave Hazel an encouraging hoot before taking off through the jagged shards formerly known as her bedroom window. God. It was going to cost a fortune to get the thing replaced. Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall owed her a sizeable pane of glass.

All annoyance aside, there was still the issue that she hadn't applied for the job of Professor of Dramatic Art at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In fact, Hazel strongly doubted there was such a position at any magical school. Regardless, she was still only in a towel, and clothing would make it that much easier to think levelheadedly.

Hazel slathered herself down with pumpkin-and-cinnamon-scented body lotion – a stowaway favorite from her Salem U days – then slipped into casual summer clothing, a worn but clean pair of jeans and deep navy t-shirt, "OXFORD" stretched in bold grey letters across her front. After a brief bout with the hairdryer, it was into the kitchen for breakfast. Nothing better than carbs to counteract a bad morning. French toast might be nice, coated with a thin layer of butter and drowning a private, syrupy death . . . in fact, French toast sounded delicious. She strolled into the kitchen.

Hazel was greatly surprised to find herself facing the cerulean shoulder of a kindly-looking gentleman with a long gray beard and half-moon spectacles. For the third time of the morning, she swore audibly, then checked herself. Her mouth was really getting a bit carried away. It seemed to have picked up some nasty habits from God-knows-where. She'd have to keep careful watch on it.

"Ah, Miss Farren. I've taken the liberty of heating a pot of water. We shall have tea momentarily." His clear halcyon eyes smiled down at her benignly. "I believe Minerva told you to expect me?"

Hazel choked. Was she expecting an old man in long blue robes in the kitchen of her private sanctuary? Nope. Nothing going – nothing she knew of, at least. She raised an apprehensive eyebrow. "You are . . . ?" Letter. Letter. What had been in the letter?

"Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts." The kettle on Hazel's stove let out a piercing whistle. "Will you excuse me a moment, Miss Farren? Sit down, we'll have tea in just a moment."

She sank into one of the sturdy russet chairs encircling her round kitchen table, surprised at her own composure in the face of the morning's alarming events. Presently Dumbledore bustled in holding mismatched mugs of Hedley's Ceylon organic Earl Grey, before seating himself. She took a sip from her steaming mug, the familiar warmth comforting her disbelief. Surprisingly, it tasted better than usual.

"Professor Dumbledore," she began.

"Albus, please," he interjected gently. "Or Dumbledore. Or Professor, if you must, but I hate seeing the oral gymnastics everyone must go through every time they wish to speak with me."

"Professor." She sighed. "I'm not really in a state to tell you how surprised I was to receive your owl this morning. While I am in search of intern opportunities for the following year, I'm not considering a post at a magical institution in addition to my preferences of a Muggle theater company or high school. I'll have to decline your offer."

Dumbledore smiled. The young American actress was every bit as to-the-point as her brilliant mother. "Miss Farren, I'd be gratified if you'd hear the details of our proposal. I'm aware of the reasoning behind your desire to remain working apart from the magical world," – here his eyes were more of a piercing than a clear blue – "but I believe you might be surprised, perhaps for the third time this morning." He chuckled slightly.

The aging headmaster was very polite, and he had been kind enough to make her tea. Hazel hated to protest against his offer without at least giving him time to explain it in detail. "All right. Let's hear it, then."

Reaching into his heavy robes, Dumbledore pulled out a small silver box with hinges and a clasp. He placed it gently on the table facing Hazel, who gave him an uneasy glance. "Open it," he said mildly.

Hazel reached out uncertainly and lifted the lid of the box to uncover a small, perfect model of the interior space of a theater. Tiny purple plush seats scaled three of the theater's walls along the front and sides, almost completely boxing in the floor-level stage. The back wall had no chairs, but was left open for future background set pieces and scenery. The floor and walls were painted black. Examining the lid, she found an amazingly tiny, perfect working model of the theater's light and sound systems. The tech booth was located in the wall behind the front seating area – obscuring the technical staff completely. It was so similar to the space she'd worked in as a little girl, but made over as if to suit her exact needs and desires for the ideal performance space.

She looked up to find Dumbledore watching her musings. "Professor, this is incredible." He nodded cheerfully, but his eyes flicked back to the box. Hazel turned back to the tiny theater. Incredibly, miniscule actors in battle array were now walking out onto the stage, their piping voices combining and mingling to form the first words of the prologue to Henry V.

"This is the working model for Hogwarts' first theater. I wanted your opinion before its installation later this evening."

"My opinion, sir?"

"Miss Farren, our desire to begin a theater program at Hogwarts goes beyond just a superficial interest. The training may also prove invaluable to future Aurors within the ranks of our students. Magic cannot replace common sense." He regarded her seriously. "You know from personal experience the Wizarding community is not entirely receptive to Muggle-dominated art forms. By offering a theater course, Hogwarts will not only be providing skills that students may need in the war against Voldemort. The threat towards innocent non-wizards will only increase if we remain ignorant of Muggle culture."

She closed her eyes briefly, her face slightly pained. "Not too much pressure for a first interview. You haven't even told me the details of the offer yet."

Dumbledore chortled. "I assure you, you will be well compensated for your services to our school. Besides free reign of the theater department, theater facilities, lesson plans for both your Hogwarts classes and a once-weekly adult class, your living quarters and meals, you will be given a substantial salary and summer holidays free."

"Substantial salary?"

He named a figure that would have had any in the acting business immediately hunting for the right place to autograph the contract. Even with years of dorm living and meager actors' wages under her belt, Hazel's mouth went dry.

"And my school?" she queried, but Dumbledore cut her off.

"—has already approved Hogwarts as an internship site."

"Well."

It was as though Dumbledore was reading the Mental Pros of the situation from a printout of Hazel's brain. "Hogwarts will offer you the ability to control exactly what happens on your stage and will not limit your choices of in-class work by editing language, sexual content, or unpleasant moral issues – a luxury few schools will allow you. After a few years as Professor of Dramatic Art at Hogwarts, you will be more than prepared to pursue your career with enough financial backing to support yourself over several years, if you have trouble finding paying work. Of course, we'd be more than willing to hire you for longer than your internship requires."

Hazel had been warned from her first day of classes with her professors that limits would always be placed on her art. There were very specific definitions of what was and wasn't acceptable on stage, boundaries placed by PTAs and PTOs and school boards and boards of directors. But then Albus Dumbledore had Apparated in with his offer of absolute freedom within the school of magic. A concession to her parents' side, then, for what she wanted.

Dumbledore continued to view her pleasantly, but it suddenly seemed as though he were focusing on something behind her – or within her – as he continued to speak. "I've seen your Oxford work, Miss Farren. Your Beatrice opposite Richard Davis's Benedick was one of the most enthralling I've been privileged to witness. The 'Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?' scene was superb." Hazel was surprised to see he'd gone slightly misty-eyed.

Beatrice had been her first lead at Oxford. Much to her surprise and the great envy of her older female classmates, she'd landed the part of Beatrice in the fall of her sophomore year opposite the department's resident senior heartthrob, Richard Davis.

Standing at the forefront of the stage with a wide smile to her standing ovation after the opening night performance, Hazel had briefly wished her parents had been in the house, front row center, to watch her success. Maybe they'd finally be convinced that her love for theater was worth passing up their approved career opportunities in the Wizarding community. If one more wizard actor was given the chance to pursue a Muggle occupation with his or her parents' approval, she thought, a year or two at Hogwarts would be well worth it.

"When can I move in?"

The beatific expression on the aging headmaster's face remained the same. "Term begins in approximately one week. Some of our staff have already taken up residence in their quarters, but most will be arriving within the next two or three days. Whenever you feel prepared to leave, you may Apparate in Hogsmeade, the nearby village, and stroll the remaining kilometer to the castle. As the weather in the village is quite lovely at the beginning of fall, your stroll will probably be very pleasant." He stood from the table. "I'm rather afraid I must be getting back to Hogwarts, but I'm pleased that you've decided to join the staff this year, Professor Farren."

She smiled slightly. "I'll be down tomorrow morning."

"Excellent. Enjoy this beautiful Grundalfjöður morning, my dear. I have always wanted to spend some time in Iceland, but it seems my family wasn't created for the strange bouts of eternal sun in the summer and constant darkness in the winter. My brother Aberforth once spent Christmas in Keflavik and nearly ended up hexing everyone within hearing distance due to a particularly nasty bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder." Dumbledore winked at her and promptly vanished from the room.

Hazel remained sitting at the table, very still. Goodbye Royal Shakespeare Company, she thought wryly. She felt strangely resigned to the fact that she'd just handed over everything she'd worked for to the kind, old man who'd appeared in her kitchen and made her tea.

Well, no sense in sitting and obsessing over it. She supposed she could always audition for them after her year of teaching, when she had a bit of money set aside to support herself if she wasn't immediately accepted into one of London's competitive professional theatre troupes.

In the meantime, she decided it would be best to say an official farewell to Iceland – at least until next summer.

The remainder of Hazel's morning was spent visiting the nearby volcanic deposits and some of her favorite haunts in the town. As the day waned, she pulled out her old school trunk from the bedroom closet and packed her clothes, favorite scripts, and personal effects. She deliberately took her time about it. The next step in packing would be awkward.

She kept her wand on the top shelf of the linen closet, behind several stacks of threadbare beach towels and boxes of her used schoolbooks from both Oxford and Salem University. Hazel had to retrieve three phone books and a chair from the kitchen to reach the back of the shelf. She rummaged around for several long seconds, nervously glancing at the ground several feet beneath her, until her fingers finally grasped the long, slim box.

Clambering down from her perch, Hazel slowly opened the beige box to reveal her nine-inch dragon heartstring and elm wand. Bits of dust fell onto the wand upon the box's opening, but it was otherwise clean and well-kept. Hazel had taken the time to polish it before she hid it away in the linen closet for good. Now she gingerly removed the slender wand from its case and turned back to the well-packed trunk in her bedroom.

It had been a long time since she'd set foot in any Wizarding area. Ever since that nasty disagreement with her parents . . . Hazel shut her eyes. She'd tried to think as little about her life in Currituck as she could over the past few years. Eventually, she'd succeeded. It wouldn't be as easy at Hogwarts. Hopefully the change of scenery and the busy schedule she'd been promised would be enough to stop her dwelling on unpleasant memories.

It had been a long time since she'd last held her wand.

Feeling surprisingly nervous, she muttered "_Reducio!_" under her breath. The trunk shrank to the approximate mass of a Fun Size Snickers bar. Hazel was slightly amazed that she could still perform any spell sufficiently after four years of nonpractice. She moved the miniscule trunk from the floor onto her bedside table.

It was only then she realized she'd forgotten to pack her toothbrush. She had to re-enlarge the trunk and reduce it again – both times successfully. Hazel felt pleased with herself. At least she wouldn't look like a complete idiot at Hogwarts.

She stayed up late into the night, making objects fly across the room towards her and trying to recall how to turn her dressing gown into a life-size moving wizard poster of Alan Rickman.

Searching for her pajamas, Hazel realized she'd put them in the trunk she'd Reduced, along with her change of clothes for the next morning and everything she needed to get ready for the next day – shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush. She'd have to enlarge the trunk and Reduce it again the next morning. So much for the lack of complete idiocy at Hogwarts, Hazel thought. I've done enough stupid things today to more than make up for it.

Finally exhausted, Hazel climbed into bed without the least hesitation about the day's major decision. After all, if she hated it she could always leave, and Hogwarts looked a hell of a lot better than most of the controlling, censoring public schools she could've come across.


	3. Chapter Two: Hogwarts

CHAPTER TWO: HOGWARTS

Professor Severus Snape was in an uncharacteristically horrible mood.

Typically his moods tended to run the gamut from bored to slightly irritable and petered out around generally pissy. Tonight, however, they'd decided that generally pissy was not even close to adequate for his current situation, and therefore ran up his emotional meter to absolutely hacked off.

If it weren't for his dignity, Snape might've considered kicking the cauldron in frustration. But as that would only land him with a rather sore foot and a cauldron slightly more to the left than it had been previously, he refrained. It wouldn't have achieved anything, anyway. The problem lay not without the cauldron, but within it – in the potion it contained. Snape was sure he'd run variations on the same experiment enough times to throw in the wand and pronounce it a complete failure.

He stared at the cauldron coldly. It was unthinkable for the Hogwarts Potion Master to come across any magical substance-related problem he could not solve within the span of four days. Snape was a professional, and more than that, a perfectionist. He prided himself on his immaculate skill, the subtle nuances of precision that lent themselves to his impeccable technique.

Inside the pewter cauldron, the experimental potion bubbled a muddy bluish-grey. Turning sharply to the nearby desk, Snape ran a finger down a list of ingredients he'd listed as suitable possibilities. He'd begun with a basic Concealment Concoction and moved forward from there – tweaking the properties, attempting to strengthen its protective elements while moving towards a resulting potion of a completely different nature. The aim of the entire mess was a variation on the Polyjuice Potion, which would eventually enable its drinker to take on another's appearance at will without the nasty go-between requirement of a bit of the other person, and with a set time limit reaching past an hour.

Snape supposed he ought to have proceeded directly to using the Polyjuice Potion as an experimental base rather than wasting time with its predecessor, the Concealment Concoction. He removed the cauldron from the fire and grimly pointed his wand at its murky contents. "_Evanesco_," he muttered.

His eyes briefly paused on the wall clock. 6:58am. Snape hadn't realized he'd worked so late, or so early, rather, but was unsurprised. He tended to lose track of time when his mind was busy with an absorbing task, and he was becoming more and more preoccupied with creating a correct formula for his elusive illusory potion.

Snape's head ached slightly, probably from hunger, and he noted that he couldn't remember eating anything after breakfast the previous day. Albus would undoubtedly issue a gentle reprimand if he didn't show for this morning's meal, and more importantly, his head would probably continue to pound if he did not eat. Wearily he recorded the ingredients and methods used on the failed potion in a lined leather notebook lying on a nearby counter, and swung open the door of his dungeon to mount the stairs leading to the warmer, dryer upper floors of the castle.

The ascending sun on Hogsmeade lit the quaint wizard town gently, tempering the chill night into a cool, bright morning. Incredibly, Hazel had managed to not splinch herself while Apparating to the village and now stood blinking at the bizarrely familiar beauty of her surroundings. Small thatched cottages and picturesque shops lined the cobblestone streets of the only completely Wizarding village in Britain.

The names on the signs outside the shops and pubs – Honeydukes, Zonko's, The Three Broomsticks, Gladrags Wizardwear – were the only indication that the town was not completely normal. Fortunately, it wasn't normalcy Hazel was after.

As she walked west, the castle loomed into view, grey-brown stone and immense despite its distance. The final establishment, a pub called the Three Broomsticks, fell away to her right as she followed the road, stepping lightly over the track-ties of Hogsmeade Station. The path led her through several small copses of trees surrounding a wide blue lake and, after some time, to the great mahogany doors of the castle.

She found herself strangely nervous, a small queasiness in the bowl of her stomach to which she had long been unfamiliar. Odd. Years of presenting herself to hundreds of people in all her most vulnerable states hadn't lessened the discomfort she felt re-entering Wizarding society. The village had been deceptively charming, but Hogwarts castle rose stalwartly above the dark lake and unsettled her slightly. She finally shoved aside her doubts as she mounted the castle steps.

Hazel pushed open the heavy wooden doors to reveal a spacious foyer of vaulting arches and elaborate stonework. She took a deep, steadying breath and stepped inside, her sandals slapping sharply against the stone floor. A short, wide staircase led her to another pair of arched mahogany double doors. A slight murmuring sound leaked from beneath these doors. After a few seconds' deliberation, Hazel lifted the great iron ring that served as a handle and pulled the door towards her to admit herself to the room.

Four long tables running perpendicular to the door filled the greater part of the room. A group of wizards and witches clustered around a fifth, shorter table at the far end of the hall. Hazel recognized Professor Dumbledore sitting in a high-backed chair at the center of the table, chatting amicably with the grey-haired witch to his right. Glancing upwards, she noticed that there was no ceiling to the hall; outside, the morning sunlight was rising steadily above the walls of the room. She supposed the ceiling was enchanted to form an exact replica of the sky she'd left outside the castle, as she hadn't seen a gaping hole in the roof and it would be very unpleasant for everyone in the hall if it rained.

At the High Table, Professor Dumbledore had seen Hazel's entrance and was now enthusiastically waving to her to join the group of breakfasting professors. Digging her hands deeply into the front pocket of her navy Oxford sweatshirt, Hazel began the trek across the hall.

Okay, breathing is a good idea, Hazel reminded herself. It's just a new group of people. No reason to have kittens. She was nervous, which was not familiar for her, and this in turn made her even more nervous. Oh, Jesus. Everyone was staring at her now.

Dumbledore rose to shake her now-shaking hand as she approached the High Table. "No accidental side trips to the Forbidden Forest, I see. Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Farren. Please, have a seat." He smiled kindly. It was reassuring, but only slightly. After rounding the table, Hazel plopped rather unceremoniously into the vacant wooden chair beside the witch to Dumbledore's right, who introduced herself as "Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration professor, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House."

"Pleased to meet you," squeaked Hazel. Minerva McGonagall's stern countenance reminded her vaguely of a challenging yet kindly acting professor she'd had as a freshman. "I'm, ah, Hazel Farren, Professor of Dramatic Art."

"Welcome to Hogwarts, Miss Farren." The professor paused momentarily to chew rigorously on a strip of bacon. "I'm pleased to see you've joined us so soon. Professor Dumbledore has been most anxious for your arrival."

"I'm not sure how anxious he could've been, I was only just offered the position yesterday," Hazel said quickly. She realized all the professors had gone back to their food and conversations, and took the opportunity to help herself to scrambled eggs, several pieces of toast, and a thick slice of honeydew melon. Unwanted attention apparently had a huge impact on the appetite.

In Hazel's periphery, Professor McGonagall seemed to falter almost imperceptibly. Her quickly regained composure almost convinced Hazel that the professor hadn't hesitated at all.

"You'll want to begin work on lesson plans immediately, I expect," she said, examining Hazel with her sharp eyes.

She nodded in acquiescence. "I'd like to get settled into my room first, but I've brought several scripts and some of my college acting textbooks. I'll take a look at them afterwards."

"College textbooks?" repeated Professor McGonagall approvingly. Hazel didn't fail to notice the satisfaction that crept into her voice.

"Better than the watered-down excuse for acting curriculum used in most middle and high schools," she replied. "I'd like to do some graduate-level work in my older classes. The more I can challenge my students, the more skills they'll gain. And the sooner I can start, the happier I'll be."

"I'll have one of the house-elves show you to your rooms after breakfast so you can settle yourself and begin work."

Hazel grinned, party in relief. She didn't seem to be mucking up her first conversation with another professor too badly. Fortunately, McGonagall hadn't asked about her previous education. Hazel was sure it was blindingly obvious that she was just out of university, and she was a little embarrassed about her lack of magical experience in the presence of Hogwarts' skilled professionals.

Looking down to her plate to seize upon her melon slice, she suddenly remembered she was wearing her favorite old comfy Oxford sweatshirt. Oh.

Over the course of the meal, she continued to ask Professor McGonagall questions – about the other members of the teaching staff, the students, the four Houses, and finally the Founders and the history of the school. When she reached the bit about the history, Professor McGonagall quickly responded, "There's a book containing everything you'll want to know on the subject. I'll have it sent to your rooms. I think you'll find it an invaluable resource while you settle into Hogwarts."

Suddenly, a door to the far left of the High Table flew open with a bang. A hook-nosed man in long black robes entered. He paused to speak briefly with the Headmaster, then took a place at the table between a grey-looking man in brownish robes and a witch with short spiky grey hair.

The man's greasy black hair fell into his face as he began to eat vigorously. To Hazel's right, Professor McGonagall said in a low voice, "Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master and Head of Slytherin. It's the first time he's eaten in nearly a day. Albus should speak with him about it. He has a tendency to forget himself when he's engrossed in his work."

"Suppose that explains why he hasn't noticed the small mountain that's taken up residence on his face," Hazel joked before she could catch herself. She had no idea whether or not the stern-looking Transfiguration professor would take kindly to an offhanded critique of her colleague's appearance. To her relief, McGonagall snorted into her coffee.

After the meal, a house-elf appeared so quickly Hazel could've sworn McGonagall had used a Summoning Charm. The house-elf led her from the Great Hall, past the Charms corridor, up a few flights of stairs and stopped before a door which caused Hazel the greatest unpleasantness of her day by being an abysmal shade of mauve. A feeling of discomfort welled in Hazel's stomach. She'd never been able to tell house-elves' genders, and it made her feel incredibly guilty for some reason she didn't understand.

"Hold on a moment. Can't this be changed?" she asked, indicating the door. The house-elf looked at her blankly.

"Why, certainly Miss can change her door if Miss so wishes," it squeaked as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Hazel sighed. "I'm not really sure how to . . ."

The house-elf gave her an almost condescending look and turned to the door. A few seconds later, the door was plain dark cherry wood. "I hope Miss is now pleased," he – she – it said, turning back to look unblinkingly at Hazel. "Miss would do well to remember that Miss's password is 'Philomel.' Is there anything else Miss may require?"

"It's perfect. Thank you --"

But the house-elf had already disappeared with a crack.

Aargh. Talked down to by a house-elf. Hazel hoped they weren't given to having conversations with the other teachers. She'd be so embarrassed if her inadequacies at the Wizard lifestyle became blindingly apparent her first day at Hogwarts. Hazel was certain at least one of the staff would have a 'good enough sense of humor' to take the piss out of her for ages.

The door to her quarters was welcoming. At least inside she wouldn't have to worry about making a fool of herself.

Hazel quickly swung open the door to her rooms and entered what she supposed must be her study. The walls were lined with high shelves of books towering to the ceiling. A fire crackled warmly on the far side of the room, and a roll-top desk stood in the corner with a sheaf of parchment, ink, and quills. Facing the fire sat a deep brown armchair, positioned perfectly for reading on chill winter evenings.

Another door led her into her bedroom. The walls were a deep russet color, the floors the same deep cherry wood as her door. Gold bedspreads and curtains covered the canopy bed and high windows, which gave a rather excellent view of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. A tall wood closet stood on the opposite end of the room, next to a third door into Hazel's bathroom. The bathtub was HUGE, white marble matching the sink and toilet. She eyed it with great satisfaction. It was an incredible bathroom. Incredible rooms, really.

Hazel immediately set about enlarging and unpacking her trunk. She realized with some annoyance that she'd forgotten hangers, but was pleased to find her closet came equipped. Her jeans and corduroys went into the chest-of-drawers-like section in the bottom of the closet, her shirts and skirts hung neatly in the upper portion.

All her plays were moved to the desk in the study, and after some deliberation, Hazel decided her few acting awards would look best displayed on the mantel of the fireplace. Various and sundry items eventually found their rightful places in the bathroom, where she finally realized she might have to purchase some new magical bathroom items because there were certainly no electrical outlets for her hairdryer.

Finally finished settling in, Hazel flopped down onto her bed, only to find a hard object poking into her shoulder. She pulled it out from the voluminous bedspreads. It was a book, prefaced by a note on a slip of parchment.

_Miss Farren – thought you might find this helpful. Professor M. McGonagall_

Pleased, Hazel settled in to read several chapters of Hogwarts, a History before beginning work on her lesson plans for the first semester. She wasn't entirely certain what she'd do yet, but a school play might be in order, and she'd be depending on the Bard for the script . . .

A few hours later, short stacks of scripts she'd managed to magically copy crowded her desk. Hazel figured she'd start her younger classes out on the classic tragedies – _Hamlet_, _Macbeth_, _Julius Caesar_, _Titus Andronicus_, _Othello, Lear_ – before moving on to some contemporary work in the second semester. She planned on working _Caesar_ and _Titus_ with her older class as well, but preferred to tackle the more-challenging clown work via Shakespeare's comedies – _As You Like It, Much Ado About Nothing_. She'd just settled in with quill and parchment to write out a more specific, day-to-day plan when the clock on her wall reminded her it was time for lunch and her presence was probably required in the Great Hall.

In her haste to leave, Hazel knocked past a stack of plays on one of her study shelves, which immediately fell over. She reached to straighten them, but pulled her hand back as if bitten.

The yellow covers read _Flee, by Hazel Farren – a play in two acts_.


	4. Chapter Three: Dungeon Eight

CHAPTER THREE: DUNGEON EIGHT

It wasn't until late Wednesday afternoon that Hazel discovered, to her extreme annoyance, that her mp3 player wasn't working. She was very tempted to fling it across the room, but decided against it as she wasn't sure the Repairing Charm would work on a complicated piece of Muggle technology and wasn't willing to test it out.

She pulled her laptop out of her trunk, where it had remained since her arrival at Hogwarts, intending to look up Dell product information. Hazel pressed the small silver button to turn on her computer. Nothing happened – no brightening of the screen to the blue welcome screen, no fading from the blue screen into her outdoor Phish show background accompanied by that cheery Brian Eno-Windows scale of descending notes.

An impatient snort escaped her nose before she could prevent it. Damn magic. All she'd wanted was to listen to Wilco and chill on her bed for a little while, but she'd forgotten the effects of magic on Muggle electronics.

Well, wizards had radios, and if it was possible to create a non-electric equivalent of a wireless, Hazel was certain she could charm her mp3 player into working while at Hogwarts.

Hazel poked around in her study shelves for a while before deciding that it was in fact a room filled entirely with scripts, tomes of theater history, and biographies.

She'd been meaning to visit the library anyway.

It didn't take too many minutes traversing Hogwarts' halls until Hazel reached the library's great doors. They whined slightly as she pushed her way into the room.

The library's walls were lined with shelves that stretched all the way to the high ceiling. Instead of the warm chatter of the professors and the aromas of fresh bread and the meal of the evening, the library had the sweet, musty smell of old parchment and was completely silent, deserted except for the aging librarian behind her desk. She looked up as Hazel entered, her pinched mouth pursing disapprovingly at the door's squeal.

Hazel gazed at the large gold letters marking each area of study within the library's book collection. Charms and Spells might yield the information she needed, or perhaps Muggle Studies. She seized a likely-looking reference manual from the Charms and Spells section entitled Basic Spells for Students, took her squarish black-framed glasses from her pocket, and began reading.

Two hours later, Hazel was still sifting through pages. Books lay scattered across both her table and those to her left and right, some still open where she'd lost interest or realized they didn't have anything remotely related to the information she wanted.

"Would you like some help?"

Hazel looked up from ­Misuse of Muggle Artifacts: What To Do When Your Muggle Neighbor's Tabby is Unexpectedly Devoured by the Flowerpot You Gave Her for Her 47th Birthday to see one of the professors she hadn't yet formally met standing before her table, an amused look in her sharp grey eyes. She was in perhaps her early thirties, tall and slim, and had long black hair which hung to below her shoulders.

Surprised, she replied, "That would be awesome. But I have to warn you, it's strictly non-academic. And if McGonagall asks, I've already finished my lesson plans."

The professor smiled. "Term doesn't start for another four days."

"That is an excellent point." Hazel shifted some of her books so the professor could have a clear working area, and then realized she hadn't introduced herself. "I'm Hazel Farren, Professor of Dramatic Art. Though I don't really feel like professor of anything right now," she added dryly.

"Olivia Vector, Arithmancy. And don't worry, it always feels that way right out of university."

Hazel handed her one of the large books she hadn't yet started sifting through. "I'm just afraid I'm going to do something completely stupid and humiliating my first day, and then none of the students will take my class seriously."

"Don't worry. It can't possibly be as bad as my first day teaching." Hazel raised an enquiring brow, and Olivia laughed. "Spilled tea across my lesson plan and all down the front of the brand new robes I'd bought owl-order from Madame Malkin's especially to make a good impression, and was so surprised I turned one of the legs of Ernie McMillan's desk into a hedgehog." She smiled wryly. "He Transfigured it back, but to this day I've had at least one student per year complain that desk is a bit wobbly."

Hazel laughed painfully hard, fighting to catch her breath. "Jesus. And I thought my imagined mishaps were embarrassing. That's _horrible_."

"Yes," agreed Olivia. "But it's nothing compared to some of the stories about McGonagall when she was at the University of Edinburgh." She leaned closer conspiratorially. "She apparently was at some club back in Forty-two and only found out afterwards that the wizard she'd been dancing with all evening was the Dark wizard Grindelwald."

Hazel's disbelief couldn't take the pressure. She giggled, an activity she had often despised in many of the gossipy females of her high school and university. Professor McGonagall, swinging with Grindelwald three years before his defeat by Dumbledore?

She had a sudden mental image of McGonagall in all her tartan glory, doing some strange high-stepping Scottish dance with a wizard clad in a black kilt, while in the background three men with bagpipes attempted to play "As Time Goes By."

That had come out in 1942, hadn't it?

"So, what are we looking for?" asked her companion abruptly, turning the book Hazel had handed her so she could read the front cover. "Somehow I don't think Adapting to Life with Your Muggle Spouse really fits under your subject matter."

"It doesn't, which is why I told you what I'm doing is non-academic," Hazel explained again. "My mp3 player doesn't work inside the castle, which is why I'm trying to find a way to enchant it so it can run on magic." She sighed. "I'm sure the Muggle-born students found a way to charm their electronic things ages ago, but I can't seem to find anything in any of these books."

"None of these titles really seem to suit what you're searching for, anyway," Olivia observed, glancing quickly over the books spread across Hazel's tables.

"True." Abruptly, she asked, "Are you planning on taking my adult class?"

"I think Dumbledore may have mentioned it at the start-of-term staff meeting. Eight on Fridays, right?"

"Yes."

Olivia nodded. "I'd like to, if I don't have too many papers to grade. It could prove useful."

Useful? "Sure. I'm definitely counting on it to get me through my first week . . ." She turned back to her books with a sigh.

"You know," said Olivia, after several silent minutes of searching through books, "you could probably just ask one of the Muggle-born students after they get back from break."

"I'm not sure I can make it through four days without my music," Hazel exhaled with more than a hint of theatricality. Olivia snickered.

"Actually . . . I've had this idea for my adult class. I just wanted to run it by an established staff member first. Would you mind hearing it?"

Olivia listened with interest. When Hazel had finished explaining her idea, the Arithmancy professor nodded eagerly.

"It should go over very well, I think. And I'll definitely have to show up for that particular lesson. But unless you have the drive to do it yourself, you'll want to speak to Professor Snape immediately."

Hazel had been expecting this. "Where can I find him?"

The further down she went into the castle, the colder the halls and staircases became, the walls devoid of tapestries and paintings to show the plain bare stone of the castle's exterior. Hazel found it not unpleasant. It was a nice contrast to the rest of the castle which, while warm, was often a little too warm and stuffy.

". . . two . . . four . . . six," she counted the doors on her left down the hall until she reached Dungeon Eight. The bolts and metal bindings on its door seemed to be better reinforced than the other doors she'd passed on her way down the corridor. Raising her fist, she knocked firmly on the large oak door.

A few minutes later, the door still hadn't opened. Olivia had said, "Don't leave if he doesn't answer immediately. Knock again. It'll annoy him to be interrupted while he's working, and he'll probably begin taking the piss out of you immediately, but ignore it. If you want him to do something for you, you'll have to get past it. It's how he is."

She knocked again, this time a bit louder and more solidly. After a few more moments of waiting, the huge door swung open.

"Yes?" The hook-nosed, lank-haired Potions Master eyed her with distaste.

Hazel quickly decided brevity would be the best policy. "Professor Snape, I need to speak with you."

He raised an eyebrow, then turned and walked to his desk, leaving the door slightly open for her to follow. "Sit," he ordered.

She sat, in a high-backed wooden chair facing his expansive desk.

"Professor Farren, what is it you need?" he inquired coolly, leaning over the stacks of books and papers on his desk to examine one more closely as he spoke.

"Polyjuice Potion," she said without preamble. "Enough for perhaps thirty full-grown adults."

He leaned back in his chair, studying his notes, then said abruptly, "Professor, I understand that, as an electives teacher, your skills are not necessary to the running of this school. Perhaps you are not aware of the amount of work I am required to accomplish before the start of term. Perhaps you assume, incorrectly, that I have the time to deal with every off-hand request from faculty without the skill to produce the potion they desire. Let me assure you, it is far more imperative that I complete the medical potions Madam Pomfrey requires for the hospital wing than any questionable mixtures you may require for your class."

Had her acting training been any less successful, Hazel was sure she would have reddened deeply at the Potions Master's sharp-tongued rebuff. It took a good deal of willpower to remain composed.

"Professor Snape, I apologize for my ignorance," she replied. "But I believe you misunderstood my request. I did not solicit your assistance. I would appreciate a working area in the dungeons – which I understand are under your jurisdiction – in order to complete the potion myself. The other areas of the castle are too warm. The potion could easily become unstable if brewing were attempted in the upper rooms."

He looked up at her, for the first time since he'd answered the door. He seemed to be considering her, weighing her. "Very well," he muttered, returning to his papers. "Dungeon Three will be left open for your use. The school potions stores are the fifth door to your right from the staircase." He rose, strode to the door and held it open slightly wider as if to indicate that it was time for her to leave., which she did silently.

Hazel heard the door screech shut behind her as she walked back through the frigid hall to the staircase. Jesus. She shivered briefly, mentally reminding herself to bring a sweatshirt when she began work on the Polyjuice Potion the next morning. It was freezing down here. The Potions Master's temperament fit his icy dominion well.

"Well? Was it horrible?" Olivia Vector inquired as Hazel seated herself at the High Table for dinner that evening. Hazel looked up and down the table, but the greasy-haired Potions Master didn't seem to be present.

"Only moderately," she answered, pausing to tuck a strand of auburn hair out of her face so she could eat without getting it in her mouth, as was often the case. "Snape's a real ice queen."

"You're not kidding," Olivia said thickly, as she shoveled a large helping of spotted dick into her mouth. "Intense, though. Get the man into tight cords and he'd be positively simmering."

"Jesus!" Hazel snorted. "That wasn't exactly the image that came to mind."

"What, S&M? Snape?" Olivia chewed thoughtfully. "It does seem like a distinct probability."

"Okay. Now this is just getting weird."

Olivia laughed and nudged her with her elbow. "Relax. As far as anyone here knows, Snape isn't even interested in sex. And if he were, we wouldn't be talking about it. Nobody would want to know."

She paused, suddenly thoughtful. "Except Filch, perhaps . . ."

Hazel made several loud gagging noises, attracting the concerned attention of the professor to her left.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"She's fine, Remus," called Olivia from Hazel's other side. "We were just talking about Snape's sex life, and, well, she reacted in a most acceptable – and predictable – fashion."

"Remus Lupin, Defense Against the Dark Arts," he said, holding his hand out for her to shake.

"Hazel Farren, Dramatic Art." Despite his youth, the professor seemed a bit grey around the edges – his shaggy light brown hair was traced with silver lines, his forehead more wrinkled than expected for a man of his age.

"Don't tell me you're one of Snape's many admirers," Remus joked, gently applying butter to his sourdough roll.

"God, no. Just another unfortunate victim of his personality."

Olivia paused to snicker before taking another swig from her goblet, thankfully avoiding spraying the rest of the staff with pumpkin juice. The conversation turned from the Potions Master to a discussion about her new colleagues' histories.

Olivia Vector was thirty-two and in her tenth year of teaching at Hogwarts, having been recruited right out of university as a replacement for the retiring Arithmancy professor. "I did consider taking some time off for a while, if I ever met a bloke worth settling down with," she related, "but I never did."

Remus appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties and admitted to having spent a good deal of time not employed in his profession of choice before he was offered his Hogwarts position. "I traveled around a good bit, did many unrelated jobs for different businesses. I think my longest time in a single place was the two years I spent working as an assistant for Flourish and Blotts in their Paris location."

The doors of the Great Hall banged open swiftly and Professor Snape strode in, his face its usual mask of carefully controlled disdain. Olivia let loose a small snort. Even Remus allowed himself a small smile.

Hazel's shoulders shook from barely concealed laughter, but she straightened as Snape passed her seat. "So," she whispered quietly to her colleagues when he was out of earshot, "are we chipping in for the leather pants or the corset and whip set for Snape's Christmas present?"

Remus and Olivia couldn't help it. They howled.


	5. Chapter Four: Flee

CHAPTER FOUR: FLEE

In the few days remaining before the start of term, Hazel spent much of her time preparing for her classes. She finalized scripts with the help of her new class rosters and used a simple Copying Charm to duplicate scripts enough for all her students. The Polyjuice Potion, which she had begun in Dungeon Three, was coming along nicely; there really wasn't much to do until the lacewing flies had completed their twenty-one days of stewing, but the mammoth cauldron she'd borrowed from the school's potions stores hadn't been disturbed and the mixture within was gently simmering each time she checked it.

The morning before term began she awoke to a clear morning and a folded piece of parchment on her bedside table. Hazel unfolded the parchment to read its contents – detailed directions to the new Hogwarts theatre that would be her teaching space.

The door to the theatre had been installed in an obscure nook on the first floor, just outside the Great Hall. The only indication of the door's contents was a small carving of the comedy and tragedy masks just above Hazel's eye level. She admired it for a few seconds, as it was very well done, then eagerly turned the knob and walked into the theatre.

Seven rising rows of plush purple chairs surrounded the stage to the left, right, and center, gradually ascending row by row halfway up each wall. The stage itself was ground-level, the floor plain unfinished wood slats to allow for easy painting without guilt. There were floor entrances from each of the theatre's four corners, and a door leading into the balcony area cut into the walls which surrounded the room on all four sides.

Exploring further, Hazel found that all the entrances were connected by a backstage tunnel that ran the perimeter of the theatre space, connecting to a wide staircase at the back which led to the balcony door.

The tech booth was located behind the front audience section.

It was perplexing. There was no light board, no sound system. The room contained a desk that spanned the width of the room beneath the large windows that allowed a view of the entire theatre space, and two plush purple chairs, but there was none of the equipment Hazel would have expected in a Muggle theatre's tech booth.

"Professor Farren?" She could hear someone calling through the thin glass of the booth window. Looking up, Hazel saw Professor Dumbledore standing in the middle of the stage. She slid open half of the large window to answer.

"Yes?"

"Ah, so you _have_ found the place." He clasped his hands behind his back, looking like an extremely self-satisfied, affable Keebler Elf. The Headmaster was, Hazel realized, as excited about the project as she. "What do you think of it?"

"It's an amazing, lovely space . . ." he beamed at her, "but honestly, Headmaster, I'm confused about its technical capacities." She gestured helplessly to the tech booth, empty except for its long desk and two chairs.

"I thought you might want to know about that." He gestured to the room's rafters. They were crowded with rows of authentic stage lights. "These lights have been enchanted to produce the lighting best suited for the mood and effect of each scene performed. The sound system," the lights focused on large speakers hanging from each corner of the room, "works much the same way, and will channel students' voices through a process similar to the Sonorus Charm used by most sports announcers and MCs."

"Professor, thank you," Hazen began uncertainly. "This system you've worked out is amazing. But in the interests of education, I'd really prefer the students to learn how to design and run lights and sound themselves – on light and sound boards in the tech booth."

He smiled. "Of course. The space is attuned to your preferences and needs. You will probably find the equipment you desire next time you return here."

He was right. The light and sound boards were spread on the desk of the tech booth when she returned, operational and humming gently.

Hazel found the banquet celebrating the beginning of the new school year fascinating. She'd known the students were separated into Houses based on abilities and personality, but she gasped along with the First Years when the long rip in the Sorting Hat opened as it began its song.

The warmth and pleasance all the teachers had shown during her first week at Hogwarts only increased at the arrival of the students. Hazel knew that most of them had felt as she did, a bit small and uncomfortable rattling around in the huge castle. But now they were almost all grinning openly, talking amongst each other about the students seated at the four long wooden tables before them, speculating and gossiping freely.

"Miss Bernhardt and Mr. Jones are at it again," the normally-chipper Professor Flitwick observed resignedly over his shepherd's pie. Hazel followed his gaze to two of the Seventh Year Ravenclaws, quarreling over their respective dinners. On either side of them, their friends looked abashed. "It hasn't stopped since their first year," the professor continued. "Mr. Jones instigates a ruckus, Miss Bernhardt tells him off, he reaches for his wand, and staff and students scatter. They've caused more trouble in the Ravenclaw common room than anyone else in my years here."

"Both are exemplary students," added plump Professor Sprout from Flitwick's other side, loading her plate with a heaping spoonful of spotted dick. "And your Ravenclaws are usually so well-behaved, Filius. Shame they can't seem to get along."

At the Ravenclaw table, Miss Bernhardt had finally pulled her wand on Mr. Jones. The professors all shared a small chuckle as the girl nearest Miss Bernhardt, a pretty Asian seventh year girl, wrested the wand out of Miss Bernhardt's anger-tightened fists before she could do any damage to the boy beside her.

Something bothered Hazel about the fighting Ravenclaws' close proximity. Weren't Ravenclaws supposed to be known for their intelligence? "Then why are they sitting next to each other?"

"Their friends," piped Olivia Vector at Hazel's other elbow. She, Sprout, and Flitwick shared a covert grin. "All the Ravenclaws know Beryl Bernhardt and Basil Jones would be a charming couple. They compliment each other well. They're the only students who aren't aware of it, so the Ravenclaws keep pushing them together, trusting they'll eventually solve their problems." She took a shockingly large bite of her steamed carrots. Hazel never had to fake amazement at the amount of food Olivia could consume, or jealousy that none of her vigorous eating ever seemed to affect her slim body. "And they'd like to stop the Friday night curse-throwing in the Ravenclaw common room," she added, chewing thoughtfully.

At the Ravenclaw table, the two had finally settled down and returned to their plates. More than once Hazel caught one shooting the other a grade-A "dirty look."

When everyone had eaten as much as they possibly could hold, Professor Dumbledore stood from his seat at the High Table. The room quieted.

"Just a few start-of-term announcements. Hogwarts is pleased to welcome Professor Hazel Farren as Professor of Dramatic Art for the duration of this school year." Hazel rose to light applause. "Her class is open to Fifth Years and above. Last minute sign-up sheets are located on the doors of the Great Hall. If you are interested in taking her class and did not register at the end of last term, please remember to sign up before breakfast tomorrow, as timetables will be distributed then.

"Hogwarts is also pleased to welcome back Professor Remus Lupin as our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." The applause for Lupin, particularly from the Gryffindor table, was staggering. "Professor Lupin has kindly consented to return to Hogwarts for another year while we continue our search for a more permanent Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

"First Years – and indeed all of our students," Hazel thought she saw Dumbledore's gaze light on Basil Jones momentarily, "would do well to remember that the Forbidden Forest is off-limits to students, unless accompanied by a teacher.

"Third Years may give their Hogsmeade permission forms to their Head of House."

Dumbledore suddenly looked very tired. "If, for any reason, you should need to seek someone out for help or for advice, do not be afraid to go to your Head of House. These are very serious times. Please do not be so selfish as to suffer alone."

After a few moments' pause, his tone lightened. "Your prefects will now lead you to your dormitories. Enjoy your school year!"

The Great Hall erupted into noise once more, the enthusiastic talking of students and staff alike echoing from the ceiling of the Hall as the students filed out after their prefects. After the Slytherins had deserted the Hall, Professor Dumbledore turned to the staff.

"My last note for the students applies to the faculty as well," he said quietly. "Help will be given to those who ask, but if we are unaware we cannot help you. Do not hesitate to speak with Minerva or I."

He smiled and bid them all a good night and good luck during the new term, and rose to leave. Feeling slightly subdued, Hazel left the Great Hall.

Her first class of the week was the Fifth Years.

As they entered the theatre, Hazel was relieved to see that there were only about twelve students in the class. She hadn't expected many to sign up, as it wasn't exactly a necessary magical skill or even a magic-related elective, but the thought of teaching a class of twenty or more students was nerve-wrenching. Hazel's only experiences teaching were the few years she spent as a teaching assistant to several acting teachers at the Currituck Little Theatre when she was a teenager.

It reminded her of her first days at the theatre near her house, checking in, warming up, working with Shakespeare under the watchful, professional eye of Shakespeare and Co. graduate Carmen Mandley.

Hazel wondered if she should allow them to call her by her first name, as Carmen had. It would probably be a good idea. The sooner she broke down the teacher-student barriers and was able to work with them as people, the more effective actors they would become.

They were all sitting in the first two rows of the front audience section. Ah. Audience proclivities. She'd fix that. Hazel plopped onto the floor of the stage, facing the class. "Okay, everyone. Circle up, please." A few of the students exchanged confused glances, but quickly joined Hazel on the stage floor, sitting in more or less a roundish shape. Hazel did a quick head count. Six Gryffindors, three Ravenclaws, and four Hufflepuffs.

Hazel steadied herself and spoke, trying to make eye contact with each of the students in the circle. "We will begin each of our classes with a Check-in. The Check-in is designed to let everyone in the room know how you are feeling, to help everyone be present in the room. Please try to describe yourself with a feeling word rather than a judgment, such as 'good' or 'bad.' Also, please say your name until we become more familiar with each other.

"I'll begin. I'm Hazel, and today I'm a bit nervous."

They continued around the circle, each student surprisingly willing to attempt to put a label on what she or he was feeling. Hazel was starting to feel more comfortable.

"Please find a space on the floor where you can lie on your back, hands at your sides, without touching anyone else. You may want to remove your school robes." Glancing from side to side uncomfortably, the students shed their school robes and scattered themselves across the floor. She led them through a brief relaxation exercise designed to help them feel more comfortable within their bodies, then a vigorous physical and vocal warm-up. They continued into a few of her favorite improve games from high school.

Hazel checked her watch. Incredibly, the class was nearly over. Hazel called all the students into another circle on the stage floor.

"I like to finish my classes by reinforcing. Reinforcement helps us know what worked and what didn't work about a class, and is a way to commend a job well done over the course of our time together. I'd like to reinforce –"

The bell rang abruptly. Hazel sighed. "Class dismissed. I'll have to leave more time for it at the end of our next class." The students filed out of the classroom. Hazel bent over her bag, collecting her lesson planner and scripts.

"Professor Farren?"

She turned. It was one of the Ravenclaw boys, Edward Gardner. He was clutching his bag rather tightly.

"Yes, Edward?"

"My brother says you're the Hazel Farren who wrote _Flee_. Is it true? Did you?" he asked anxiously.

Hazel's eyes widened in momentary shock. A wizard boy, who knew obscure Muggle plays? "N-no," she lied. "But she is a relative of mine."

"Oh." The boy's shoulders sagged slightly. "Thank you, Professor Farren."

"You're welcome," Hazel answered quietly as she watched him leave the theatre.


	6. Author's Temporary Farewell

Dear Readers –

The release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince on July 16 marked an important series of changes in the Wizarding world. In light of certain events which came to pass during HBP, I have made a decision to discontinue writing this story. It no longer seems appropriate.

However, there are still two years (or more) until Book 7's release, and I've already got a new story idea, which I will begin on as soon as I can. I knew it would be difficult to write a Seventh Year story when Book 6 was due to come out in two months, and my assumptions have been proved wrong. It's time for me to re-examine those assumptions and start over.

s. m. rahl


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